Hold on, my dear Don’t you know that You don’t bring a knife to a word fight?
And also It’s only fair for you to know that tonight I’ve chosen a shield of my thickest skin
I know you’ve found me stab-able in the past We both recall the blood you’ve drawn The wounds you…covet?
Hell, If I couldn’t see these red flags a-waving I’d say, “man I must be blind!”
So, come at me “bra” Ah, right? Get it? “Bruh”… but, ”bra”…cause you’re a girl Yes, I thought that was clever And I knew that you’d hate it That’s what made it so enjoyable
An odd feeling Joy Around you Knife in hand Venom colored eyes “Stabby-stabby” your gaze a screamin’
Trust me You don’t have it The thing to put me down The words to shut me up
You’ve been a rose-less thorn for more days then I can recall And the fun ran out around the bottle’s last drop So if you want a fight If you’re looking to poke holes in my curtains to led the blood moon in Know Please know I’m ready
The say the man with nothing left to lose will take everything you have to offer Well at least I said it Just now Your hate’s a fire and my marshmallow heart has already been toasted
Yes, I sound like an asshole No, I really don’t care You’ve been mean, you’ve been callous Your abuse has been documented You’ve taken my attention far too long Like a library book you had no intention to read Nor return
We battle Forth And then back You slash And I parry You hate that I laugh But I know I just know
That even if I lose, I know you’ll never win
For knowledge is power And tonight I’m the electric company
So that’s it, we’re done I can’t speak with surprise Nor regret Or sadness over this ash-covered whimsy
But you have the mic With intentions to drop
And there’s no way I could have predicted the slash that’d come next It didn’t go for heart, or my head, not even my breast No blood was drawn and not an injury found
You had the last word… I found no reply
When you screamed “I’m done” Good “It’s over” Fine “I’m a mermaid” …
I didn’t even know what love was until I saw it in a movie. Sure, a parent who never lets you wander in front of a moving tractor is love. Pizza on Friday night is love; it’s a goddamn Austen romance, melted in cheese.
No, it wasn’t until Grace Kelly appeared on screen that love entered my mind, and took home in my heart. My life didn’t have a purpose until the courtesan put diamonds aside in favor of the penniless poet. My heart didn’t sing along with my voice until Leia finally let Han past the Rebel blockade guarding her heart.
What is a film if not an escape? What is love if not a reminder that every rain storm is an invitation to dance?
We really don’t need any reminders that suffering is as common as cheese on crackers. We have enough bickering and resentment towards our friends, towards our own bodies to not welcome a break. We sleep with enough broken glass in our brains that we practically rattle when we roll over.
So what if we kiss a little too hard, a little too often?
Who cares if we write poetry with blissful profundity over that girl with the hair and the eyes who’s writing a song for that other dude with the fingers and the bowties?
Why don’t we all run away for just an hour? Just for one day? Or even a forever? Why doesn’t everyone venture to Paris at the turn of the century? Why don’t they sing atop giant, jewel-encrusted elephants?
Have they not seen her bite her lip as the sparkle in her eye jumps out as if to say, “Boy, history is going to be written about this very next kiss,”?
Were they never witness to the way he walks in those pants, those fucking pants, good God, who in the world even has a right to look that good in pants?
Somewhere right now there’s a dog sniffing a butt like no other butt it’s ever smelled and he’s about to run around the yard with a mixture of terror and glee. Do they not know that feeling?
That feeling is love. I’ve seen it.
Where I’m from we have to protect ourselves. It’s best to bury ourselves down so far in the ground that there’s no risk that even a breeze could alter our course.
Where I’m from hate rolls in a little too hard, a little too often.
And so you might find me stranded in Casablanca. I’m probably doing a set at the Moulin Rouge. I probably just uttered, “As you wish,” another damn time. It’s not about the running away, no.
It’s about having just a little more hope each time we come home.
In the end, it’s just a life. It’s equal parts the thing he finds missing, and missing what can be found hanging menacingly above him. It’s 6 P.M. It’s just waking up. It’s mourning the lost day. It’s grasping for what’s left. It’s the ghost, the day left dead leading him toward the light. The light isn’t the end. The light is hope.
Obviously, hope isn’t so much a promise, as a whispered tease. That the mind can be so far gone, yet so easily find something to chase; that is the grand promise of a universe that neither needs us, nor is remembered if we’re not here to speak of it.
I asked for freedom, and when I gave up everything to find it, the realization that freedom is simply a construct hit me like a Great Dane: violent enthusiasm mixed with potential, loving death. You don’t get a party when you walk away from a ten-year relationship. You get an odd assortment of boxes and perplexing questions regarding who really owned the salt and pepper shakers.
“Why are you eating spice-less pasta? Freedom, that’s why!”
As I stare at the sad conglomeration of stuff that one might say represents my life, I wonder what I’m fighting for. Why even wake up at all? Why start over when I could easily just succumb to withering in this muck? “Why not?” doesn’t seem sufficient enough an answer.
But why the fuck not?
Famous wordsmith Mr. Sirwhosworth once famously worded,
“My vast intellect and this intoxicating concoction of advice and apathy will help you through this day, should the need arise, should you remember this quote.”
That’s helpful only of course if you know how to break the quote down, and if he ever really existed or rambled like that in the first place. Can you tell the writer of this piece is in a bad way? Do you know that the writer is me? Who am I kidding (myself? My audience? Mr. Sirwhosworth’s widow?), you probably know more than I do. I’m just plucking away at the keys, hoping at least ten percent of this work serves the gods.
The gods of making sense The gods of sanity The gods of _______ (CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE!)
I probably could have just taken the salt and pepper and she wouldn’t have noticed.
In the end, it’s just a life. It’s equal parts knowing exactly what you need to do, and not knowing exactly how it should be done. It’s 6:30 P.M. It’s frantically writing. It’s honoring the current moment. It’s tenderly touching what’s available. It’s the angel, the girl in your dreams that you might meet one day. The dream isn’t real. The dream is hope. Obviously hope isn’t so much a promise, as a passing caress. That the mind can be so dark, yet so easily lit by flame; that is the legend of the thing called ‘love’, the intangible thing we so desperately embrace.
It’s taken 500 words to realize it needs to be said, but look, I’ll be alright. ****REDACTED CLICHÉ****, it’s just going to take ****REDACTED CLICHÉ**** and then ****REDACTED CLICHÉ****.
The widow Sirwhosworth returned to the expansive meal she’d set out for her dining companion. The Broken Writer had been a stranger only a day ago, but the with passing of her husband, many of his former students began turning up.
“I hope you don’t mind, he always liked it when I went a little overboard,” she said.
“Not at all,” The Broken Writer replied. “You didn’t have to go through all the effort, but you did. Says a lot about you.”
“He’s gone, but it still feels like he’s right here, watching. I still like pleasing him, does that make sense?”
“His is a light that won’t go out. Now then, I don’t recall you mentioning which of my husband’s classes you attended.”
“Oh, I didn’t. I pretty much made him up in my imagination.”
The Widow Sirwhosworth scoffed behind her teacup, “Well that doesn’t make a lick of sense.”
“I know. I prayed about it, but you never know which god you’re praying to.”
“You certainly are a silly young man. I do hope you don’t grow out of that. Now, tell me, how is the pasta?”
“I can’t lie, it’s amazing compared to what I’m used to. Still could use a little more kick though…”
Hand tangled in hand Eyes on eyes Caramel melting into hazel deep The heart’s doing that thing that makes me think it might burn like fire or it’s just waking up Can’t be sure
Girl you got me beatin’ my drum Casting that light Out into the dark In the face of the night Afraid of nothing But running fast
Body on body Skin, sweat, skin Burying ourselves deep within The sins our hearts and minds Fight to keep out But long to drink in
Tortured bliss starts like this Girl when you bite that lip
Where you takin’ me baby-girl What’s the plan Don’t have one? Just keep shakin’ them hips ‘till my will says “quit” and I dive Deep within the questions keeping Our bodies from dancing like wind in rain
Girl you got me hammering fists Calling your name Out into the void In the wilds of the wind Recklessly driving Driving so fast
Body on body Skin, sweat, skin Burying ourselves deep within The sins our hearts and minds Fight to keep out But long to drink in
Tortured bliss starts like this Girl when you bite that lip
I guess I should have seen that “goodbye” coming But then again it never really arrived, it just sort of “was”. The ever-invisible anvil of truth came crashing down on the cartoon that is I. I’d ask if it was something I said, but you never really heard me to begin with Did you?
Waiting at a bus stop that will produce no ride This isn’t a route I can in any way call my own I may have fallen a little off course And I don’t know which way the wind is blowing But I don’t find myself lost I’m just a little far from home
I can’t say I’m surprised that it turned out this way I tried to put my saddle on a hurricane And for my 8-second ride, I knew it’d be a storm I just thought my umbrella could bear the weight of your winds My vessel sinking in a moonless port…
Oh, hold there, boy Can’t see me? You gonna hear me Don’t hate me if I back you up off the plate, slugger You knew just what you were getting into A spit-fire riot, broken beyond repair “Fix” me, who you? I enjoyed the ride, punk I gave you the wheel but my scars hide my keys
My heart, my ride, my place, my time Who are you baby boo To call my darkness shade?
Your words were gonna strangle my heart They wouldn’t You tore your-self apart I didn’t I promised no promises I know Then why you waiting to dance in the rain? That I WISH I knew
I just needed a minute, you didn’t hear the alarm? That’s a fire you got burning baby You might want to put that thing out You knew just what you were handlin’ A claw-first panther, left too long alone “Cage” me, who you? I enjoyed the bite, boy I’m the one you never knew you wanted, but I’m less here than gone
My love’s not a road you should be driving Yup Especially at this erratic rate-of-speed Well arrest me officer No You don’t want to lock me up? You know I do But you can’t I won’t even try Then I’m free to go? And so am I Oh, where you goin’? I don’t know yet…I’m just a little far from home
I’ll always be right down the road boy. No. Not from any place I reside I see No…you won’t
Fighting back the tears sent from the missing A parcel in the post I didn’t have to sign for I may have fallen a little off track And I don’t know which way the wind is blowing But I don’t find myself lost I’m just a finding my way home
I see that question dancing around the shine of your cinnamon eyes… I’m not going to be that guy stormin’ in, lookin’ to set them on fire. At least not today, not a hint of ill-advised fury. Tiny embers spark…
It’s a battle, this world, and when you need to enlist in the militia you’re often left, like something neglected in the rain. When you want to let your lighthouse caress nothing but the waves I’m the armada surging into your harbor, lost ships escaping a wanton sea. A trifle invasion…
At the risk of proving I’m a reckless optimist, can I just say that no matter what, you never need feel alone?
I’m down for the laughs, I’m up for the fight, I’ve got the engine to get us to the heart of a fantasy, Hell, we could become one with the sun from now until twilight. But if all you need is a wall to rest your weary back A sword and shield in your hand or on your heart Then that’s all I’ll be That guy, today and tomorrow Anytime and always.
Still though, I hear you, it’s all a little heavy, The sunshine of the heavens with the winds of a high-pressure system. Just remember we’re all going to get a little wet in the rays. Drowned in life.
There’s not a word or phrase in this whole world that can make this make sense Yet the clarity of the situation seems like the world’s easiest riddle. Who is always there, but a shadow only visible in the dark? A “bright night”, you say?…
You’re here for whatever, I’ve got however much of it you need You’ve got the power to race the rusty machine within My car’s out back if you’re ready to take that ride. But if all you need is a lift, a quick pick-me-up A guide with a map, to get you out of the blistering sun Then that’s all I’ll be That friend, today and tomorrow Anytime and always.
As the confusion rained down, all he knew was that when she grabbed him by the hand, he had access to see stars in galaxies undiscovered.
“You know you’re going to love this,” Alexa said, dragging Billy through the busy streets toward the Ritz Carlton.
“I know you don’t really know me, but now I’m worried that you’re blind too. I really don’t think I’m dressed for this fancy an establishment. And I’m really sorry about making that seeing-eye-dog joke before,” Billy said.
“It’s only as fancy as you make it, Sunshine, come on!”
The entirety of their relationship, all of 47 mins and 15 seconds of it, had been equally as haphazard. Billy Wylde, 17 and Alexa Somethingorother, ??, hadn’t intended on running around the streets of Modesto that mild November day. But now that the hurricane was upon them, the pair made the most of it, riding out the storm.
“Garcon!” Alexa shouted as she pulled up to the swanky hotel bar.
“You know his name?” Billy questioned Billwylderly.
“Hush. We’re extravagant French bankers. Rekindling a long lost love from a convention in Geneva. Go with it.”
“How do you say, “you’re completely insane, but I think I love you in French? Or Genevish for that matter?”
“Vous n'avez pas encore vu quelque chose comme moi.”
With a permanent sneer, the bartender slowly made his way over to the pair, looking them up and down the entire way.
“I assume there’s something I can assist you with,” he said.
“WE’RE FRENCH!” Billy said, gesticulating like a drunken windmill.
“Bankers. The finest of the fine, Jeeves. Now how about a Bloody Sunday, and a white whine spritzer for my old colleague here. We were just discussing Genenva in Spring time.”
“Geneva!” Billy yelled, the windmill now more of a lawn mower.
“Delightful,” the bartender muttered before going to procure two cherry sodas.
Alexa took Billy’s scraggily hand into hers and raised it to the nape of her neck.
“Feel that? Right there? That’s where I’m going to want you to grab me when we start making out in the hotel room,” she whispered.
“If you think we can afford a place here, I think we must have robbed the bank we work for,” he said. “Wait…we’re going to be making out?”
The girl was like a Cracker Jack box with all surprises and no candy. She’d quite literally run directly into the young ne'er-do-well while evading the police.
“Help. I’m wanted. Do you know the way to Mexico?” she pleaded.
“Well, you’ll have to go through my heart first,” Billy immediately thought.
“Blackcats playing bingo,” is what he actually said.
That was 52 minutes and 11 seconds ago.
“I want to kiss you vigorously in room 237, just like at the convention,” she told him, dragging him away from the bar.
“I think it might have been in room 119, but then again, I might just be confused because it never happened,” Billy said.
The duo snaked their way through the halls of the five-star resort, both looking like a modest one-and-a-half star couple. Alexa bribed a nearby maid to gain access to the room.
“You’re like a wizard,” Billy told her. “But Gandalf would be super jealous if he saw your tits.”
“Gandalf has seen my tits Billy. Why do you think he vanishes to much in the book?”
“Wow. I already had a hobbit in my pants. But after that, well, I’ve got…well, one-and-a-half hobbits. Like a Samwise with Gollem on his shoulders.”
“That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said, isn’t it Billy.”
Alexa laid her lips on Billy’s neck, he was a little shy, it’d been about the entire length of his existence since a woman and been near him. All six-foot-whatever of the gangly teenager whithered like a rose in a storm and the brazen beauty pulled in close. “I got you, Sunshine,” she said.
“You may have me, but who’s got you?”
Billy pressed his lips to hers, right after missing and slightly biting her chin. He put his hand on the nape of her neck, as requested, but it was her who had to guide him to really handle her the way she wanted.
Alexa was the captain of the vessel that set Billy sail on an ocean he’d never seen before. His life was a desert until she showed up to flood his lands.
The sex was awkward, almost a struggle to start, maintain, and finish. In fact, his charismatic dance partner actually fell off the bed.
“That looks like something I would do,” he said.
“See, only gravity will come between us Billy.”
It was actually the police that came between them. As they were both handcuffed, and placed into separate cars, it was Billy who was full of charm:
The personality test asked if “Laughing was the most important” function of life. I strongly agreed. Now it may not be entirely true. I need to breathe. If I can’t breathe, I can’t laugh. But still, I strongly agreed.
I find that if you can’t laugh at yourself, you hand complete power over to the rest of the world to laugh at you instead. Take, for instance, the time I was watching a history documentary, where the narrator said, “Jefferson intended to have the Declaration of Independence finished on July 2nd, but was delayed two days.”
“How convenient,” I thought. “That let if fall on Independence Day.”
So I can laugh at myself, sure.
An embarrassing life experience can easily be forged into an incredible story that can make pretty girls laugh. And recall, laughing is one of the top two most important functions of life. I like my girls to be able to breathe too, but then, I know that I’m picky.
Every single thing I have set out to do today has backfired gloriously. Gym>>Haircut>>Pack up the old house>>Starbucks>>Homework>>Shower>>Party. That was the plan. My gym flooded, inconvenient when you wore sneakers instead of flippers. The haircut looks decent enough, long enough to be pulled, but short enough to acknowledge that nature likes to laugh at you by taking one of your features away. Problem was, my debit card didn’t work. That wasn’t embarrassing in the least. A trip through traffic to the bank to find out that everything was “fine” only to find out things weren’t actually “fine” and I had to return to the bank to let them know I was so thankful for their comedic string of clerical errors.
The panic attack set in around that time, a side effect of my best laid plans revolting. And here I sit at Starbucks…
Because none of the rest of that shit is getting done. And that’s hysterical.
What else am I going to do but laugh? Sure I could get pissed and bitter, but that’s only going to mess me up going forward, and I’d rather all my future plans fail of their own accord, not my own.
There’s a reason the rain hurts when you’re walking directly into the storm; you’re literally pushing against it. That’s life. You knew you had to walk across the busy parking lot to argue with the fools in the bank. You had no idea the sky would open up and seem to target only you. Gotta go through it! That debit card’s not going to be “fine” all on its own. So you use your naked face to give that storm the what-for.
We go on because we have to, if we want to live. If we want to laugh. If we want to breathe.
But I suppose it’s time to tell the world I’m gay; bi-sexual anyway. I honestly don’t know if one encompasses the other, or they’re separate. Please be patient with me. Women will likely always be my preference, but I don’t subscribe to worldviews as simple as black and white, gay or straight. I mean, come on, there are certainly some damn handsome gentlemen out there. Life is fluid; so am I, as I am life, it breathes within me.
I feel like I need to be writing this. In fact, as I sort my troubled mind out, I’ll likely revise this, update, and add to it, maybe burn it in a trash fire. My mind and heart are in such a stake of ecstatic flux, I don’t think I could point out a single star to wish upon, even if they were all falling from the sky directly into my eyes.
And that’s saying something since I’m such a reckless dreamer.
Why am I telling you all of this? Why IN THE HELL is it my first post for LJ Idol? Simply put, I feel like I need to say this, I need to say it for YOU...
See, I've been getting A LOT of questions. Well, one really, but it's repeated ad nauseum:
"Are you gay?"
I'm mean, I've heard it a lot in thirty some years, trust me. And I've never really gotten used to it. Not because being gay would be a bad thing, but it just felt like people couldn't just accept that I am me, Brian is I. And if you hang out with me for 47 seconds, and are paying attention, you'll find it's quite difficult to store me away in but one simple box. I'm all over the place. I like musicals. I like UFC. I like country, I like Beyonce. Do you know how many categories or genres I just checked off in those few statements? Plenty. But the thing is, I'm checking them off all at once. And sometimes never! I'm like the wind, sometimes I'm chill, sometimes I blow the fuck out of town.
With my recent return to society from a four-year romance with a hellish depression, and my return to theater, the question is chasing me pretty fervently again.
"You watch Rupaul's Drag Race. You must be gay." "You're pretty comfortable with your emotions. I bet you're gay." "If you like musicals like Wicked, you're def. gay. And if you're not, I'll get you there."
These paraphrased quotes are just from the last few weeks. It kind of breaks my heart. Can't I be complex enough to A) not fit a single label, and B) just be me? If you already like me, appreciate me, why do I have to be qualified with ANY labels?
The answer is simple: for me? I don't.
For others? If you need it? Fine, here's where I stand today:
I love women. Like INCREDIBLY.SO.MUCH.LIKE.YOU.HAVE.NO.IDEA. Likely always will too, but, you know fluidity and all.
I've never been with a man, nor engaged in sexual congress with a man. I've never even wanted to. Are there boys that take my breath away? Ones I can't help but (attempt to) talk to when we're working together? Oh, yes there are. And I certainly don't mind the attention I get in return, but this is just where I’m at today.
I've been doing my research as I've been searching for my identity. There's a subsection of bi-sexual that seems to fit, it's "Heteroromantic bisexual". I could be totally wrong, who knows. And that's the thing, I'm always going to be learning and growing, and blowing like the unchainable wind that I am. I'm cool with that. When I was seventeen I dealt with a lot of bullying for being gay. The really hard part was that I fit their "requirements" to be gay-bashed, but not the actual definition of being gay. I felt guilty two times over! There was something wrong with me AND I didn't even qualify for the label. I've hated that for years. I decided then that my mantra would be this:
I'm going to do what I want, when I want to do it.
That was more than a few years ago, and today, I'm sticking with it. It's my mantra, and it's for me. I'm perfectly comfortable being whoever the hell I want to be today. But if you're not comfortable with that (and hey, that’s ON YOU), I thought I'd give you a box to put me in. Just know one thing. When you come back to find me in that box, I'll likely have blown away.